Is there enough space for queer musicians in India today?

In March 2025, streaming platform Spotify released its annual Loud & Clear report, which revealed that almost 50 per cent of royalties generated by Indian artists on the platform in 2024 were from listeners outside India. Over 9,000 Indian artistes were added to the global and local editorial playlists at the time. India’s music scene is growing with each passing year, but representation with it is still scarce.

In 2012, Alisha Batth featured in Coke Studio India’s video of Do Gallan. Later, in 2019, musician Pragya Pallavi released her album ‘Queerism’, often cited as India’s first openly queer-themed album. These are important landmarks for queer musicians in India. However, most of the music coming out of the country is heteronormative, and LGBTQIA+ representation within the industry is still limited.

“In the Indian independent music space, there’s definitely more room for experimentation and individuality compared to the mainstream industry. But even here, certain unspoken norms still persist,” says pansexual musician Anoushka Maskey.

While the Indian indie music scene allows for more experimentation and individuality, these systemic biases exist there too. “There’s still a lack of visible gender diversity and queer representation, especially when it comes to artistes who don’t conform to binary norms or conventional ways,” Maskey. The 28-year-old, Mumbai-based singer-songwriter, who has been part of the scene for five years now, has been connected with music since she was a child growing up in Sikkim, and even stars in many of those “embarrassing childhood videos where a shampoo bottle is a microphone and some crummy guitar playing fills an old bedroom.”

How queer musicians in India face resistance for expressing their identity

Artistes like Maskey are still making themselves heard, pushing back against homogenisation and carving space for queer artistes navigating the Indian indie music scene. Singer-songwriter Suman Sridhar says how she “came out to the press in 2011” and has since been navigating life as an openly queer woman. For a while, she also openly dated a non-binary AFAB person, the pair occupying cultural spaces together. “It’s different when you’re out as a single person versus being out [when you’re] with a same-sex partner. That’s a whole other level of discrimination that one faces,” says Sridhar, alluding to homophobic comments and being ignored by those around them. For many LGBTQIA+ musicians in India, queerness isn’t just personal, it inevitably becomes political within the spaces they occupy.

Thirty-three-year-old Delhi-based, multi-genre singer-songwriter John Oinam is also open about his gay identity and uses social media as a way of expressing himself. “The people I’m working with have advised me to be myself but not to ‘overdo’ things. I really don’t understand that,” he says, about others critiquing the way he presents himself on social media—be it the clothes he’s wearing, the colour of his hair, or anything else that doesn’t conform to the cis-het, good-boy look. He’s confident of his ability to entertain—whether it’s a queer audience or a straight one—and that, for him, is the most important thing. “It’s my identity. It’s not affecting your life in any way; it should not matter,” he says.

Oinam performs at festivals but most of his gigs are private shows, be it a wedding reception or for a corporate gathering. When potential clients want to assess his work, they go straight to his social media page. And oftentimes, they’re put off by what they see. “I lose a lot of opportunities because of that. But at this stage, I’m not going to hold myself back from being myself,” he says. As someone in the public eye, Oinam also feels a sense of responsibility towards the queer community. He points out how several people in the public eye drop hints about being queer but never openly say they are. “Things will really change if that starts happening,” he adds.

By being openly queer, couples challenge the perceptions of what others consider right or wrong, often resulting in others hitting back by being discriminatory. “We’re living in a society of disassociation,” says queer and trans affirmative psychotherapist Aryan Somaiya of Guftagu Counseling and Psychotherapy Services. “India is a repressed country, sexually, mentally, emotionally, in every way. So you suppress yourself, you live on autopilot, you’re dissociated. In such a society, authenticity comes at a cost. When you’re out, the chances of encountering violence increases a lot,” he explains.

While these musicians have chosen a hard life for themselves, they’re also becoming role models for others in the LGBTQIA+ community. “As we grow up different, our biggest fear is whether there’s anyone else like us in the world. And if they don’t see representation, they can go so far as to think that they’d be better off dead,” says Somaiya. To see someone else living openly and freely—like these musicians are—is deeply important for others in the community. Its positive impact cannot be overstated, nor measured. “Someone can now think of being queer and [yet be] part of the music industry in India. That possibility opens up, you can dare to dream,” he adds.

How the Indian music industry sidelines queer representation 

While these artistes are carving the way for more queer representation in India music, being a trailblazer comes with its own set of challenges. Oinam points out that he only really feels the music scene noticing queer artists during Pride Month. “We get work in June. They only remember us when they have to show inclusivity. But the other 11 months, we’re invisible,” he says. To this end, Maskey adds that conversation about queerness often feels “surface-level or tokenistic” and that representation of queer artistes is largely limited to cis, male gays.

Sridhar points out another subtle nuance about listeners’ discrimination. “If you identify as queer but make work that is very heteronormative, then people don’t have a problem with you,” she explains. In a way, as long as the music feels familiar and comfortable, and doesn’t really challenge audiences, it works. But Sridhar’s music doesn’t fit into that heteronormative box. “I bring the gender and sexuality perspective into my work,” she says, referring to her music video for An Evening in Gay Maharashtra, and another track called Blow Up Dolls. Such art opens up conversations with audiences, many of whom seem unwilling to get into the discussion. 

But the challenges for these artistes don’t end here. There’s only a few safe spaces in the country for queer artistes in India to perform at, like Gaysi, Gay Gaze, and Sangama. Big events are often commercial and distant, and it’s at the smaller, more intimate, community-driven events that these artistes feel like they can shine. At such events, Maskey notes that “people in the room are there to hold each other up instead of just consume, drink, and party.” While queer artistes perform at other venues as well, there’s always a sense of caution, since hostility can come from anywhere. “Only people from the community are trying to create safe spaces,” says Oinam. And because of its limited scale, such spaces are still the exception, not the norm. “We need more venues, curators, and media to step up, not just during Pride Month, but throughout the year,” says Maskey.

While these spaces are important, from a professional lens, Sridhar is more interested in seeing fruitful integration. For instance, actor Shabana Azmi has, in the past, supported Sridhar’s work by giving her the opportunity to be part of the Mijwan - Summer 2017 fashion show headlined by Shah Rukh Khan and Anushka Sharma. Through such allies, artistes receive more exposure and what such instances lead to is the hope for more safe spaces. “Professionally, it’s very important for me that such allies exist because they integrate you into the larger network,” says Sridhar. Such allyship helps circumvent the limitations of industry gatekeepers in India, who often overlook independent or queer talent. 

The next chapter for safe spaces and queer creativity in Indian music

Despite the ups and downs that being a queer musician presents in the country, all these artists are hopeful about the future. Oinam finds hope in the people who accept him as he is and do give him work, keeping his journey going. Maskey finds fuel in the connection she observes listeners develop with her music, be it a vulnerable DM in her inbox or someone meeting her after a show with “wet eyes and kind words.” Sometimes, she does feel the weight of expectations, as though she’s shouldering the weight of the entire community, when all she’s doing is figuring it out as she goes. “What I keep close is the understanding that representation isn’t about perfection, it’s about possibility. If my music can give even one person permission to feel what they feel, or to imagine a fuller, freer version of themselves, my job is done,” adds Maskey.

While individual connections touch the soul, on a professional level, what’s more important is support from labels and bagging record deals.  Sridhar thinks such caution is unnecessary and that the “industry gatekeepers” are underestimating audiences. “Audiences are actually starving. In a country like India, which has such a large population, there’s an audience for everything, including experimental work and queer content,” she says.

Curated by Gaysi Family